


The Rise and Fall of Sheridan Hope

by ughmycroft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Season/Series 02 Finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:51:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ughmycroft/pseuds/ughmycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can’t stay away any longer. He dyes his hair and changes his wardrobe. He no longer favors deep purples and mysterious blacks. No, When he answers John Watson’s call for a new flatmate he becomes Sheridan Hope, an aspiring writer with a doctorate in Chemistry. With a shy personality and a collection of sweater vests he starts a new chapter in his own life, winning John Watson’s friendship… again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Idea

            Sherlock felt himself swell slightly at the sight of Mycrofts humanity showing through his thick skin. He quickly swallowed it down before it could threaten the conversation at hand; convincing Mycroft would take evidence not sentiment. “Mycroft watch your tone, if I didn’t know better I'd d say you have grown more attached to John than even I. Maybe you should stop having such frequent outings with him, or did you assume I did not know of your late night scandals?”

            “HOW DARE YOU! We simply talk! About you no less, I would never encroach upon John Watson! He is your territory, not that you’re even alive to claim him, remember brother?” Mycroft fury was boiling over, and Sherlock could already tell by the white knuckled grip on his umbrella he was winning. Mycroft was never able to think clearly when upset. Sherlock took a steadying breathe aiming to win this argument.

            “Fine. Here is blueprint. We both know John is alone – he doesn’t date, he doesn’t see his old friends, and he is barely able to complete his job. He needs companionship –“, Sherlock shushed Mycroft as he began to protest, “- he needs excitement.”

            “I want to create a new persona. I want to become someone else and befriend him once more.” Sherlock let out a deep breathe, the words weren’t heavy but for some reason he felt better saying them out loud. It felt more apt to occur. He looked at his brother defiantly, willing him to feel his pain and desire, willing him to agree. Mycroft let out a deep sigh, surrendering, and Sherlock preened.

“It won’t be easy. How will you even begin?”

“He’s looking for a flat mate. He hasn’t said anything yet, but I can tell. When he walks by potential civilians he judges their clothes, their intelligence, and their attitudes. It’s subtle, but it’s there.”

“And you think he would simply ask you to be his flat mate? He doesn’t even know you Sherlock. Are you honestly so grief stricken you have created a new reality inside that brain of yours?”

Sherlock puffed up venomously, “You let me handle the details and keep your bloody hands out of it.” He stomped towards the exit door, “And that includes your many government hands, brother!” The door slammed with a note of finality.

Mycroft lit a cigarette taking a deep drag, returning his attention to the war plans laid out on his desk.


	2. The Trick.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock creates his new persona.

He hated nothing more than compromise but he had accepted Mycroft’s generous offer of professional stylists after seeing his choices were between a disguise created in secret or attempting to ask the same of public salon he quickly saw his error. That would be easily noticed. He sometimes blamed John’s for his inability to think logically without him. It was curious that his brain could be impaired by someone so sentimental but, he thought as he waited for the team to arrive, it seemed he was only capable of being logical when his sentimental counterpart was near. It was as if they were to very misshapen halves of the same coin. He let out a discontented groan. He felt as if he were reliving an episode of Star Trek in which he had finally lost to his human side. It made him feel weak. He began to tap his foot impatiently bitterly admitting to himself that he was weaker without John than with him. His constant worrying completely ruined his Mind Palace until there was no where he could think without first chasing the fears from his mind. NO, this just will not do, he thought. He pulled out his cellphone quickly dialing Mycroft number; he pulled out a cigarette as the phone dialed.

“What do you want Sherlock?”

Mycroft’s voice was taunt and tired, he imagined that his brother’s day had been quite trying and from the shuffle of papers fluttering in the background he was attempting to leave his office at that precise moment.

“Where are you team of _expert_? They’re late. I can’t stand incompetence Mycroft.”

The audible sigh of contempt came through the phone with little effort disguising his fed up tone.

“Sherlock, they are on their way. Some people have _real_ jobs.”

“Funny, I can’t remember hairdressers ever tackling World War 3?” He imagined Mycroft raising a brow as the line stayed silent. “By that I mean, if you and I can appear on time so can a simple hairdresser.”

“Ah. Clever little brother.” Sherlock takes a long drag from his cigarette before Mycroft speaks again, listening to the shuffle of his brothers clothing and the click of a car door – the black jaguar obviously. “Sherlock, it’s completely reasonable to be nervous.”

Sherlock discontentedly huffs through the phone receiver, “I’m not nervous Mycroft. Stop putting words in my mouth. Unlike you I’ve no need to gorge myself literally or otherwise. Your sweet words make me sick to my stomach.”

It’s Mycroft’s turn to sound indignant, “In three years you’ve barely spoken to me unless I called first brother dear, even a peasant could read your emotions. You’re not quite as clever as you used to be. I’m sure that will help with tricking you old boyfriend into taking you back.”

“Oh shut up Mycroft. You know that’s not what this is about!”

“Are you sure? You do seem rather heartbroken lately. Sentimental Sherlock?”

The doors of the warehouse opened to his left and he could hear the sounds of chatter approaching him, “Fuck off Mycroft.” He shut the phone forcefully unable to remember his initial reason for calling his older brother. Was he nervous? Had he called in hopes of calming his frayed nerves? Had he finally become a sentimental idiot, succumbing to human emotion as the rest of the population so naturally did? His phone vibrated as the hairdressers reached him setting up their supplies for the long trek ahead. He checked the screen briefly.

_Sentiment has broken stronger men Sherlock. But do not forget it has given many men the force to win wars they never expected to. – MH_

Sherlock sometimes hated his brother’s insight into his own thinking process. He blamed their childhood for creating their similarities. There was no doubt Mycroft understood sentiment’s joys and pitfalls his gold ring constantly reminding him not only of their dead father but his past betrothed. He found himself sitting down in thought allowing the black cover to be pulled around his neck shielding his expensive clothing from the wisps of black hair falling around him. He had never understood Mycroft’s silly notions of sex, love, and _romance._ The words made him cringe in context with his brother. The Iceman they called him, but he knew better. He began to ponder as the laid his head back and began the waxing and dying process had he himself slipped into sentiment unknowingly? Is this what Mycroft had meant when he so sadly announced his heart was compromised no longer able to make logical decisions when his beau was involved? He grudgingly acknowledged no matter what John Watson believed of him, or anyone else for that matter, his heart was compromised. _Not that Mycroft need know that, though judging from the insightful text he most likely knew much earlier than I._

_-_

He barely recognized himself and that in its self was a surprise. He had expected to look different but he was blindingly different to his own eyes. Whether it was his deeper baritone voice or his now ginger hair styled with gel baring his blue eyes for all to see complete with colored contacts to keep them from changing back to their natural green he did not know. They were dark he noted unlike his normal bright eyes. These begged to be closely inspected rather than viewed from afar. They were mysterious whereas his natural iris was uninviting, menacing, and analytical. His cheeks seemed permanently blushed with his new hair color and he was perturbed to view his red eye catching eyebrows. He felt much more like Mycroft than he wanted in that moment.

He looked over his new ensemble, the rest kept at Mycroft’s flat for the time being, it consisted of a white oxford fitted loosely under a light blue argyle sweater vest. It gave him an edge he decided. It seemed to age him from his twenties to his thirties. He blamed the notion that older men wore sweater vests. He smirked, _perfect._ Sherlock looked to his left giving a curt nod to the team before turning back to a young girl beside him.

“Do you have the envelope,” he asked quietly.

She nodded handing over the crème colored enveloped with a, he rolled his eyes, wax seal. _Oh Mycroft, you are such a prat._ He opened the envelope curious about his new identity, his new disguise. Oh how his heart soared, disguises were like theater but better because none of the other actors knew they were a part of the ruse.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I’m actually surprised if you’re reading this. I assumed you would haphazardly enter John Watson’s life unprepared but thankfully you must have paid attention to Mummy at some point in our life. She was always telling you not to underestimate my intelligence. You’re now officially an aspiring writer with a doctorate in Chemistry – Oh I can almost hear your heart soaring that you might still be able to create small experiments, but please remember that might be TOO obvious to John. You’re in London seeking an apartment to pursue your writing after receiving an inheritance from your deceased father – that will keep him from wondering about your day job as I doubt you will take one up during your residency. The name has not been assigned for you yet, I thought it best I leave this detail to you. Please, Sherlock, try not to be obvious, AND NO PIRATE NAMES._

_-MH_

He grinned, unable to curb his excitement. He sat for a moment attempting to pull a name from his reserves that wouldn’t alert John to his real identity. He mused momentarily about keeping his initials convincing himself that straying too far from the truth would only serve to backfire later and what was life without a small bit of risk? He walked out of the Warehouse briskly trying to decide what the new Sheridan Hope’s gait should resemble.


	3. -

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WELP THIS PROBABLY ISN'T HALF AS GOOD AS THE ORIGINAL DRAFT BUT AO3 DELETED IT SO. UGH . RAGE. If it seems OOC well that's because he's not acting like himself, he's acting like the new pretend sherlock, which is a more good will, peace to all, fun version, that lets his feelings out.

Sherlock stands in the door way unable to walk in or to leave. He feels his nerves building up as he stares into the coffee shop. John hasn't arrived yet but that doesn't make him feel any better about his situation. He suddenly finds himself doubting his experiment and regretting his decision to try and fool John into being his roommate. He gently pulls at the strings on his _new_ vintage messenger bag. He doesn't know who it used to belong to but it looks fairly used and he finds it helps him to appear as a writer of sorts. He even looks the part, the prose button's on his bag, the loose stripped sweater pulled over his white undershirt, and the fitted dark purple jeans he wears help him to become Sherlock Hope. He, however, at this moment feels exactly like a nervous Sherlock Holmes than an depressed writer. He quickly turns around trying to leave the shop before John appears to get his morning coffee. He gasps as he collides with a solid object, one that appears to cursing profusely and damning him to hell. He nearly dies of a heart attack as John, who is now writhing under him, his doughnut thrown across the sidewalk, stares into his new blue orbs. Sherlock holds his breathe afraid that he is recognizable. Especially since John is staring into his eyes, and he _knows_ that John has stared at his eyes a hundred times before. To his credit John merely heaves a sigh rolling Sherlock off of him and onto his back, Sherlock suddenly remembers how to breathe.

"OH my god, I'm so sorry, I can't believe that happened. I wasn't paying attention, it's all my fault. God, please let me buy you another doughnut or coffee to make up for it." He looks at John as if he's pleading for his life, his voice deeper than normal, and his now semi-dirty body clinging to him, perspiration beginning to build on his skin, his nerves are only getting worse.

John, who is now trying to brush the doughnut crumbs from his body smirks, humored by his outward display of nerves and apologies. "Sure, you can buy me a cuppa." He pauses in the doorway, "But only if you stay and drink it with me, I haven't seen you around here before."

He breathes a sigh of relief, feeling vaguely uncomfortable that his plan worked so well with out him even trying, perhaps fate was simply realigning himself and John again. He let a small smile grace his face and followed in after John who sauntered in beforehand his leg still stiff but he noted the lack of cane usage. It seemed that John hadn't reverted to his cane and that was enough to make Sherlock feel hopeful that the future was going to be bright. He grinned at the waitress who stood un-amused at the counter, "What can I get you two gentlemen?" 

Her eyes swept up and down his and John's bodies taking in their appearance as she licked her tongue across her bright red lips. Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes, he was not a pretty sight to looked at like a fresh buffet. He interrupted her staring when she came to lay her eyes on John's dog tags; they shined brightly against his dark shirt. "Two coffee's. I'd like a cup of chai and he'd like it black with two sugars and cream." He felt himself tense up as he finished the sentence. John was peering at him with an odd sense of wonder, "How'd you know that?" Sherlock closed his eyes for a minute willing a lie to come to him, he quickly grinned turning to face John as the waitress walked into the back of the store. "Ah, just a lucky guess. I had a roommate in college one time. I guess I'm so used to ordering for us that I accidentally just said our order. Weird coincidence it's your's too!"

John shrugged seemingly satisfied with his lie. "That's pretty neat then isn't it. Are you from around here then?"

Sherlock shook his head, "I just moved here. I'm actually looking for a flat to stay in."  
'  
John's posture straightened slightly and Sherlock finds himself wanting to grin. He can pinpoint that analytic look anywhere. John was sizing him up as a roommate. "What'd you do before you came to town."

"I was actually a professor of Chemistry, but I had a love of writing. So I decided to take some time to write and be one with the world."

John looked at him, an eyebrow raised in question, "What kind of books?"

Sherlock found himself unable to quit grinning, "Well, I like to write murder. You know books with crime scenes. I like that best because of my forensic background."

John laughed, "Gosh, sounds like an old roommate of mine. He used to run around chasing murderers. He'd love you." John paused reveling in his cheerful memories, "Hey, what's your name anyways?"

Sherlock grinned grabbing the now cooling coffee's from the counter as he made his way towards the window, "Sheridan. Sheridan Hope."  
\-----


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock isn't sure when he started referring to himself as Sheridan when thinking. It had been much too easy to slip into this persona, to joke with John Watson about things he never had the time for before. He didn't care if he was talking about a television show or the stars, if John liked it, he wanted to talk about it. It could have been the moment he began laying in his old bed, now offered to him by John but it had felt like, as soon as he hit the sheets, that this was exactly how fate had decided it should be. And so he had literally and figuratively become the man he had created. It wasn't as if he had given up on his old self, more like he was allowing more of his true personality to show, the personality he had developed before his alcoholic father had beaten him into a less sentimental man, before Mycroft's fiance had broken his heart, leaving only a single gold ring as goodbye. Much like he wore his mask to remind him of the worlds cruel fate, Mycroft wore his ring as a reminder that no one could ever love a Holmes, not even their parents. He shook his head trying to return his thoughts to greater more happy thoughts.

Their coffee date had gone well enough besides the flirtatious waiter who made Sherlock furious. At least John had seemed oblivious to her her blatant attempts, although by the sixth time she had walked over to ask if he needed more coffee Sherlock had almost lost his cool, she was killing their conversation flow. Thankfully, he reminisced, staring up at his old ceiling, John had sent her away, his irritation present, explaining that they were in fact discussing some personal things and to leave them, for a better word, alone. He could have hugged John for his swift, effective send off of the waitress. However, he knew he was Sheridan, not Sherlock, and that meant acting differently. He put his head down as if embarrassed by John's action, picking anxiously at his messenger bag. John had now returned his attention to him, reaching out a gentle hand, lifting his hand from his bag into the air mingled with his own, "Hey mate, I'm sorry about that. She just can't take a hint. I'd really like to get to know you better, I didn't mean to upset you."

Sherlock felt himself swoon, he could have swore John didn't have this power over him before, but he couldn't be sure of anything with John Watson's bright blue eyes staring into his soul. "I-It's okay, I was just surprised. You seemed like a quiet kind of guy." He let out a breathless chuckle as John released his hand returning his hands to his cup where he took a deep drink losing himself in thought, "It's possible," he began seriously, "that I was once a quiet man, a gentle man, but life has a man of changing people. I'm not a nice man, I can throw tantrums, go weeks with out eating or sleeping anymore it seems." Sherlock had looked at him questioningly, he had suspected John's ptsd symptoms would return but he was surprised at John's easy honesty - admitting such personal problems to a stranger seemed odd, even to his own eccentric self. John seemed to sense his confusion before giving him a smile that rivaled his famous three-continents-watson smirk. "A good friend of mine once told me potential flat mates should know the worst about each other." He took a deep breathe telling himself he must not let John see that such a comment affected him, inwardly he swore, he wasn't supposed to know who Sherlock was much less be moved by a offhanded comment about him.

"I can agree to that statement. Let me think about my worst habits," Sherlock looked out the glass window to their right as if his answers lay outside waiting to be read off of a prompter. He closed his eyes, resisting the urge to bring his fingers together as he thought. He couldn't play the violin anymore, it was too iconic for John, and his experiments couldn't be nearly as out of control as they were, but what of his addiction? "I am an ex-junkie, while in college I entered a darker circle of life. I am not proud of it, I deal with those demons occasionally..." He paused briefly checking John's expression for anything odd, but it was a nearly unreadable mask, which he took as a good sign, "I am a writer, and therefore can go many hours with speaking as well, sometimes, when something is too difficult I will walk at night to ease my mind." Yes, he told himself, that sounded plausible, normal, and gave him an excuse for when he accidently lost himself inside his mind palace.

John simply nodded, no changes in his cheerful demeanor, "Well great, I'm glad to hear there isn't anything crazy about you." He chuckled a little, more to himself than anything Sherlock mused, before making eye contact again, "You want to come check out the flat? I wouldn't mind letting you move in as soon as possible. I'd love to split the rent, my old flatmate," He paused, and Sherlock nearly dropped the facade as the tremor near the end of his sentence but John shook his head slightly plastering a huge smile on, "He moved on, so I'd love a new one. You seem like a great fit." Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, although inwardly he was shocked at John's near instant acceptance of him. He'd expected more of a fight to earn John's interest as a flatmate, and especially as a friend. He figured he hadn't got near the friend mark yet but becoming his next flatmate was quite an honor he thought. Especially since John had eyed most everyone in this area daily. Surely he'd have found someone he could stand in London in those months, apparently not though, he thought a bit grimly to himself. He shook a bit of his red hair out of his eyes suddenly aware of his now curly auburn hair. He'd nearly forgotten how different he truly did look. Without his dark mysterious clothing and his black mop of hair he was most likely unrecognizable even to John Watson. Well, obviously, he thought to himself, or the plan would have ended an hour ago with a black eye and busted lip.

He watched as John began to tap his knees in a rhythm that suggested he was thinking of leaving, Sherlock beat him to it, "Ready?" He stood up letting his back slouch slightly, trying not to appear as ramrod straight as he normally did. His phone vibrated in his pocket as he followed the now pensive John Watson outside and into a hailed cab. It took most of his courage to chance a look at John, remembering all the times before that he had ridden with him. A small smirk lit up his face as he remembered the ash tray from the Queen's quarters. That had been most enjoyable he thought. His new phone was a cheap flip-phone that annoyed him endlessly but made him seem more technologically illiterate than his old self. Every little quirk helped make his new persona it's own person.

[Michael Hope]  
I hope that everything is going according to plan? -M

He quickly typed a response ignoring the annoyance he felt by Mycroft signing -M to his message, was the daft man trying to get him caught? Could he not simply leave off the signature? What if John had seen, he would have instantly suspected no matter what Sherlock made up about the sender.

[RE: ]  
Going well. Do not interfere. -sh

The phone closed with a satisfying crunch as he shoved it deep into his pants pocket, briefly annoyed at his lack of an overcoat. The sweater was a great idea as a coat made him too noticeable but it still drove him mad not to be able to curl up into it and hide from the world at large. He looked up suddenly aware of John's attention to his scowl, "Sorry, just annoyed by the college. They still want to know my every move even though I'm no longer teaching. Seems a bit mad to me." John nodded in understanding, "Sounds frustrating. Why not just get a new number?" He was looking at him honestly. Sherlock merely sighed, "If I did that they'd never take me back, and I quite like my job."

John grinned looking out the window as the cab slowed to a stop outside of 221b, "Well hopefully this place will make your day a bit more happy, yeah?" Sherlock followed him out of the cab to the front of the door. The familiar smells sent a wave of sentiment through Sherlock and he felt momentarily he might cry, he had missed his home throughout this ordeal. It did not take his genius to know that Mrs Hudson would be fixing them biscuits and a pie as John had, at the coffee shop, sneakily sent a text that he was bringing company. 

He couldn't help but grin as John opened the door allowing him inside and into the arms of Mrs Hudson. She grabbed his neck pulling him down, patting him motherly on the back. "John told me he was bringing someone to look at the flat, he didn't tell me he was bringing someone so handsome." She grinned, suddenly picking at him, and telling him how much she loved his sweater and book bag. He could see her relief at John having some kind of company with him, and he wondered not for the first time if John was worse than he was letting on. "Let me go fetch you boys some snacks, do behave while you're up there John, no shooting anymore holes in my walls, alright dear?" Sherlock could make out John rolling his eyes in mock agitation as he ascended the stairs. He hated how similar John was to his old self, as if he had become more like Sherlock in order to feel close to him. 

"No need to be worried, Sheridan. She was only kidding, I haven't shot in her house in months. And that was only for an experiment." He rolled his eyes again causing Sherlock to smirk slightly, "I work with Detective Inspector Lestrade sometimes, on cases, so you know, sometimes I need to experiment a bit." Sherlock had to turn around facing the new photos on the wall nearest the door in order to hide his grin. 

"Who is this?" Sherlock stared a photo of him and John framed on the wall. He didn't recognize the photo, but he suddenly wished he had his own copy if only to stare at John's honest smile before he fell asleep at night. It was a photo of himself and John giggling together, their heads drawn close and illuminated by the police lights flashing behind them.

John cleared his throat a bit uncomfortably before starting, "That's my old flat mate. He passed away a while back, but his brother brought me this after I punched him." Sherlock whipped his head around surprised at this new information, Mycroft had never mentioned such an occasion, "You hit him? Why?" John shrugged nonchalantly, "I was angry, and he seemed a good person to blame. Anyways, he brought me that as a kind of apology, he's been a good bloke to me since. We get along now." 

Sherlock nodded, "I'm sorry about your friend..."

"Yeah me too."

They stood there a few minutes longer before Sherlock, much to his own surprise, began to feel uncomfortable. Perhaps he was coming down with the flu, he mused, such things sentimental things as old photographs rarely affected him. "You okay there Sheridan?" Sherlock felt a wetness forming in his eyes, he must look a sight to John Watson, red rimmed eyes made more noticeable by his pastel clothing. "I'm sorry, I just - I'm very sentimental and this photo touched a nerve." He expelled the words as if they could not be spoken fast enough, he was clearly less ready to be here in 221b than he originally thought.

"Ah, that's going to different. My old flatmate didn't believe in sentiment. I guess I've grown cold towards it to nowadays." He hung his coat near the door brushing past Sherlock as he went. The familiar smell made his heart ache and made him wonder if he was always this sentimental about such small things or whether his sudden reappearance made him appreciate John's details more- his smell, his smile, his laugh. Sherlock shrugged attempting to throw on a bored expression and remove himself from a conversation about himself. John seemed to read him instantly, and he suddenly cursed his former self for teaching him so well, "I've made you uncomfortable haven't I, Sheridan? Sorry, we won't talk about the old flatmate anymore. Care to see your rooms?"

"Absolutely, lead the way, I'd love to see where I'll be staying." He grinned blindingly at John, unable to contain the happiness of seeing his old room again. John was giving him a small, honest smile back, "You've decided to stay on then?" Sherlock resituated his messenger bag, stalling for a few moments, he had decided, hadn't he? Was there ever a chance he would have turned the offer down? This was what he came he for, to become John's roommate again.

"If I like the room, then yes, I'd like to stay. If you'll have me that is." He looked down at John meekly not yet confident in his actions. He noted John's hair, now poking up slightly, he must have ruffled it during the time that Sherlock had been looking away in thought. It gave him great joy that John still did that during his moment of nervousness, it gave him greater joy that he was the cause of John's nervousness. It meant John was fixating on him and that meant more opportunities to truly become his friend again.

"Oh gods yes, of course. I'm sick of living alone. It'll be great to have a new bloke here." He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder before heading up the stairs barely looking back except to flash and excited grin. The door was held open by the time Sherlock crested the top of the stairs and it made him smile to see that his room, while packed up was still inside. He eyed the picture on the mantlepiece, another photograph of John and himself laughing at something off screen. He recognized the background as the Scotland Yard but the other details remained fuzzy to him. He wondered at the black and white quality suddenly aware they must be CCTV prints. Ah, Mycroft, getting sentimental was he? Searching old CCTV footage for pictures to give John. He suddenly felt John's gaze penetrating him, waiting for a response. He walked forward instead turning in order to sit on the bed, he bounced on the bed a bit as if testing it's responsiveness. John now leaned in the doorway, arms crossed staring at him in amusement. 

"I'll take it. I could wire you the money tomorrow." He glanced at John, a shy smile threatening to over take his features. John righted himself with a smirk, "Was there ever any doubt?" He gave Sherlock a knowing smile that reminded him at once of his former self after making a correct deduction, it made him feel uneasy yet excited. John started to turn and walk out of the room as he started talking, "I'll have Mycroft stop by today and take the boxes with him."

It pained him slightly knowing that his old things could not stay but keep himself cheerful foregoing the dreary attitude such a thought gave him. "You seem rather different John Watson, are you going to inform me of your past, or am I going to have to ask around?" This made John stop in his walk towards the kitchen, "What do you mean different?"

Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes at such a feigned display of stupidity, "You say you already knew I was going to stay here, how? You have dog tags, but a limp as well. I can't decide are your active or retired. I just wish to know a bit more about you." John was busying himself with tea know mulling over the questions in his mind, leaning back against the counter before continuing. "I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world now, there are things written across peoples features, I read them. That's how I knew you would stay. Your entire body language gave it away. I'm retired, I suffered a psychosomatic limp from a gunshot wound. It healed when I was still living with my last flatmate, however, he was taken in a very traumatic way to me. The stress has not only brought back night mares but influenced my limp to once again become prominent. That's it. That's all there is too me." He paused as if thinking he might say more, "I nearly married a few months ago, " Sherlock thinks he might throw up he feels so surprised, but he hopes the shock is not written on his face, "but Mary, Mary Morstan, said I thought of the dead too much. She wasn't happy with the relationship anymore. She sometimes comes around, but I never answer. Anyways, if that enough for you?"

He knows that every word John has just said is meant to be a battle cry, an attempt to scare Sheridan away, to keep him from being too close, but all he hears is a tired and sad voice underneath it all. He simply looks down attempting to keep there eyes disconnected, "I see. Well if it's all the same to you, I'll go upstairs for a bit and try to plot out where some of my things might go."

John looks uncomfortable now, as if he might have gone too far with his defenses. He says nothing though, showing his remorse instead by shoving a freshly brewed cup of tea into Sherlock's hand before retreating to the living room to watch mindless television. Sherlock sighs, finding himself upstairs, laying in his old bed wondering how today had even happened.


End file.
